


hometown hero

by 24parts



Category: South Park
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Holidays, Infidelity, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29319654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/24parts/pseuds/24parts
Summary: "I'll call you," Kyle says as he extracts himself fully from the hug. "I'll Snapchat you!""Okay." Stan nods, trying to look hopeful about it. "Just don't, like, fall for some hot Jewish guy and leave me for him, or anything," he jokes, but it falls flat. Kyle is distracted by closest flight table, frowning deeply, and Stan's heart wasn't in it anyway.(or: when the cat's away, the mice can fall apart.)
Relationships: Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh, Stan Marsh/Craig Tucker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	hometown hero

Traffic is backed up on the Interstate 70, en route to Denver International. It's cold out, but Kyle insists on keeping the passenger side window open, rolled all the way down. He's leaning towards it like it needs it to breathe -- like he doubts there will be air in the car otherwise. Stan considers reassuring him, but knows this will only agitate him more. He thinks about telling Kyle that soon they'll be close enough to see the accident, as if it's something to look forward to.

"We shouldn't have showered together," Kyle says, after his eyes flick to the clock on the console for what has to be the fortieth time in as many minutes. 

Stan doesn't bother asking why not. It's not like he could bring himself to regret it, like Kyle apparently does. He wants to reach a hand over, to take Kyle's and hold it for as long as he can, as an apology. He wouldn't usually, on the freeway, but Stan estimates that they are moving at around three miles an hour and could easily be overtaken by a passing tortoise. 

He keeps both hands on the wheel, and Kyle keeps talking.

"It's like no matter how many times I brush my teeth, I can't get the taste out of my mouth all day," he's saying, and Stan is glad that it sounds like more of an observation than a complaint. "I like it, sometimes," Kyle says, after a pause. "But not when I'm doing, like, Jewish stuff. Then it just feels kind of wrong."

"Jewish stuff," Stan repeats, amused. 

"Yeah, like going to Israel." Kyle shrugs. "Just the usual Jewish stuff." 

They reach the airport eventually, at a time Stan thinks is entirely reasonable but which seems to be threatening to send Kyle into some kind of panic attack. It's drizzling as they park up the Jeep and then load Kyle's suitcase out of the back, and then walk with their heads down towards the terminal. 

"I'm probably going to die on the flight," Kyle says, out of the blue.

"What?" Stan asks, raising his head. The rain gets in his eyes immediately and he has to squint to see Kyle trudging along next to him, dragging his case through the puddles on the asphalt.

"Out of boredom, I mean." Kyle glances at him. "Sorry. It's just that it's so far, and I can't call you or text you or anything..."

"You can call me from New York," Stan reminds him, as if they haven't had this conversation a dozen times already. They talked about it while Kyle was packing, too, tossing a pile of books into his hand luggage. And then again this morning, in the dark, in bed. Kyle seems more concerned with the day-long flight than the fact that he's going halfway across the world on his own. Apparently, that's how his brain works. Stan doesn't get it: but then, what's there to get? Something about the inner workings of Kyle has always been a little off-limits to him, and Stan has never thought to ask if it's mutual. Hurrying through the sliding doors of the terminal, it seems like the wrong moment to bring it up.

"I will," Kyle says. He pulls his phone from his pocket, checking the time. He comes to a stop in the middle of the moderate crowd, unfazed by the people trying to make their way around him. "God, okay. I really have to go or I'll miss my--"

"You wont miss your flight, Kyle," Stan says, rolling his eyes.

"Thanks for coming with me," Kyle says. He has his arms by his sides, sort of hovering. "You didn't have to."

"I wanted to." Stan shrugs, then adds, "I wish I could go with you the whole way."

"Well, you had your chance to convert, dude," Kyle says, smiling. He walks over and, before Stan knows what's happening, Kyle's arms are wrapped around him and his face is pressed into Stan's shoulder, the juncture where it meets his neck. Stan collapses into the hug immediately, relieved, and Kyle must feel it because he looks apologetic when he pulls back to look Stan in the eyes, and his smile is straining. "Have a good Christmas, anyway."

"Yeah. I will. Thanks."

"I'll call you," Kyle says as he extracts himself fully from the hug. "I'll Snapchat you!"

"Okay." Stan nods, trying to look hopeful about it. "Just don't, like, fall for some hot Jewish guy and leave me for him, or anything," he jokes, but it falls flat. Kyle is distracted by closest flight table, frowning deeply, and Stan's heart wasn't in it anyway.

"I'm so late," Kyle says, though Stan knows he's really just on time. He gives Stan a swift kiss on the cheek before he reaches for the handle of his case and walks backwards a few steps, looking around for where he's supposed to check in. 

"I love you," Stan tells him, pathetically. He is very aware that he's saying this to Kyle for the very first time since they were ten years old, right now in an airport terminal, and they're standing five feet apart with a suitcase between them, and all Kyle does is stare at him. 

"I know," he eventually says. He fidgets, looking at the flight table and then back at Stan again, almost pained. "...I seriously have to go."

"Yeah." Stan manages a smile. "Just... call me."

"I'll call you," Kyle promises again, but he's already walking away, looking for the check-in desk, and all Stan can do is put his hands in his pockets and watch him disappear into the crowd. 

-v-

Stan wants to go home and spend the rest of the day moping around in the empty house, but instead he forces himself to drive straight on to South Park. He passes the same accident down the highway: it hasn't cleared. Maybe if Kyle hadn't decided to suck his dick in the shower this morning, they would've missed it altogether. Maybe then they would've had time to say goodbye in the car, or go to Panda Express or something, and Stan wouldn't have ended up embarrassing himself. 

He's been holding the sentiment in for years, doubting that Kyle would ever want to hear it. In another life, Stan might've thought this indicative of a relationship on the rocks, if this hadn't been the way things were since the start, through the best and worst of it. Kyle avoiding his touch in public, tensing when anyone has the audacity to refer to him as Stan's boyfriend, or, now that they're older, his partner. In all these years, they haven't discussed it. It's a tradition dating back to when they were kids and something changed, subtly over time or maybe all at once, when they stopped being friends and became whatever they are now. Stan is unsure what the correct term is, or if one even exists at all. Kyle doesn't seem to be under the delusion that they're hiding anything, but their relationship has become public knowledge mostly through guesswork and weary confirmations on the part of Stan, who felt unready to voluntarily explain it to anyone in high school, or in college. Now people don't ask. It's easier that way, but also leaves him unsure of where the line is. Sometimes he wonders if Kyle is just toying with him, screwing him around. He assuages this fear with the fact that he's pretty okay with letting Kyle do whatever he wants, as long as things stay the way they are.

Things are good the way they are. They have the house, and there are vague plans to adopt a dog once the backyard is fenced, a project Stan claimed he'd take care of months ago but still hasn't even started. They have great jobs: Kyle has an enviable and highly competitive position as an aide at City Hall, and Stan owns his own camping supply store. He works long hours, but Kyle's are even worse, and at the end of the day, they have each other. 

In the midst of the daily grind, responsibilities seem to slide. Stan noticed this some months or maybe years ago, and now, driving back to South Park, it's staring him in the face. Not only has he somehow neglected to visit his family for at least three weeks, but now it's December twenty-second and he hasn't bought a single Christmas present yet, for anyone. Stan hasn't done Christmas the last couple of years. Since he's been living with Kyle, he's neglected to celebrate, and they've developed their own strange tradition of ordering Chinese food, watching all of the Die Hard movies, and having sex on the floor. He feels a twinge of affection, thinking about that. Kyle will be away until after New Year, and Stan couldn't quite stomach the thought of sitting at home, eating Chinese food and watching Die Hard on his own instead.

It's raining much harder by the time he pulls up in front of his mom's apartment building. It was newly built when they moved in and is nice-ish still, all rectangular and clean lines and boasting a little playground out back that's always empty. There's no elevator, though, so Stan has to shoulder his bag and carry it up three sets of vinyl stairs. When he steps onto the landing, he sees that the front door is already open. Sharon is in the doorway with her arms folded, waiting for him.

"I heard your car," she explains, smiling ruefully. "I can't believe you're still driving that thing, Stanley."

"It's just what I have," Stan replies, as she moves aside to let him in. It's an autopilot response: Kyle gives him shit about the Jeep all the time as well, mostly because of the unsightly dent in the passenger side door which Stan has not had fixed yet. 

"I know, I know, but still." She shakes her head as she takes his coat. "Who's watching the store?"

"Uh," Stan says, though he has doubts that his mother has memorised his roster of employees. "Deena." 

"Deena..."

"The manager, Deena."

"I thought she was a teenager," Sharon says, mildly, as she opens the closet and puts Stan's coat away.

"Well, she was three years ago when I hired her, but now she's the manager, and Kyle--" Stan catches himself smiling, though he has no idea why. "Kyle thinks I overpay her, but she's worth it, I think."

"How is he doing?" 

"Yeah, good," Stan says. "I just dropped him off at the airport, so."

Sharon raises her eyebrows. "And how did it go?"

"He's really excited about the trip," Stan says. "I thought he'd start freaking out about it, you know... going to another country and everything. It's pretty far."

She pats his arm. "Well, I'm sure he knows they'll take good care of him."

"Yeah." Stan checks his watch. "Did you already have lunch?"

"No, but Roy's about to start on a mushroom risotto." Sharon glances back over her shoulder, smiling, and sure enough when Stan looks down the hallway and into the lounge he can see that Roy is home, on the sofa, wearing brown corduroys and a sweater with a snowman on it. When Stan's mom looks back at him, she catches his expression, then hesitates. "What?"

"Nothing." Stan shoulders his duffel bag, and manages what he hopes is a carefree sort of shrug. "I'm gonna go unpack."

Stan's room isn't exactly Stan's room anymore, and hasn't been since he graduated from college and stopped coming back here for the summers. He lives in Boulder now, which is close enough that he can see his family whenever he wants but far enough that he isn't expected to drop by on a regular basis. This also means that he's never before felt the need to stay the night in what is now a redecorated guest bedroom. He closes the door firmly, then hauls his bag up onto the mattress. It's the same bed he used to have, and he considers sending Kyle a text to inform him of this news. Then he remembers that Kyle will be spending tonight on a red-eye going halfway across the world, and probably wouldn't be overjoyed to hear Stan talking about the comfortable, familiar bed he'll be using in the mean time. 

So much happened here, though. Stan thinks about it vaguely while he takes the badly-folded sets of t-shirts and jeans out of his bag and puts them away. Kyle will be gone for ten days - Stan knows for sure they haven't been apart that long since they were in grade school. That, and counting the travel and the fact that Kyle will be returning at night, it's more like twelve days. Almost half a month. It's jarring to think of it that way, and Stan falters half-way through closing a drawer, staring down at the carpet. The same carpet. It's sort of white-ish, off white. The rest of the room has been done up in unobtrusive, pale tones.

He sits down on the bed and takes out his phone.

_Super weird thinking about all the stuff we did in here_ , he types, and sends it to Kyle.

Then he looks around. The curtains are open -- as a teenager, Stan usually kept them closed. There's a blurry painting of a deer where his framed and autographed Broncos shirt used to be, and that dumb lamp he always had is gone, packed away somewhere in his own garage. The whole room smells like Febreeze, whereas it used to be... well, mostly Febreeze back then, too, because his mother has always been militant it, but it had been accompanied by a hint of overdue laundry, and dog, because he always let Sparky sleep on his bed, couldn't bring himself to care about the hair... 

Admitting defeat, he flops onto his back and closes his eyes. To his surprise, his phone vibrates in his hand.

_In where?_

Stan squints at the screen. Kyle must be on the plane by now, waiting for takeoff. 

_My room at my mom's. They redecorated but they kept the bed._

_Oh, god, the stains._

Stan laughs just a little, under his breath, then ends up staring at the screen for a while with his fingers hovering over the on-screen keyboard. He tries a couple of different messages: _I'm sorry about what I said_ , then: _I meant what I said_. After deleting and re-typing a couple of times he eventually settles on, 

_Are you okay about what I said?_

_I don't know_ , Kyle replies instantly. _I mean, I do love you. I just think it's asinine to talk about, and it makes me uncomfortable, and I know you know that? I mean, I'm guessing that's why you held it back this entire time, unless you literally realised it for the first time earlier today, in which case, wow I'm an idiot!_

Stan stares blankly at the small novel Kyle has written him. Then three more texts come through in rapid succession.

_Jesus Stan._

_I can't be having this conversation right before this flight._

_It's like four hours._

Stan sits up, hunched over the phone and completely at a loss. He has no idea what conversation they're supposedly having. All he wants is to tell Kyle about the room and the stuff that isn't in it anymore, and the risotto he's only going to eat because he skipped breakfast this morning, and maybe even throw in some juvenile complaining about his step-father, which Kyle has always tolerated, despite the fact that Stan has been going over the same general points since they were in elementary school. 

_Look, can we just go back to talking about the bed?,_ he asks. He even goes as far as attaching a sad cat emoji, for solidarity.

_I have to go,_ Kyle replies. _Talk soon._

Stan puts his phone away, annoyed. He has no idea if the plane is really moving or if Kyle is just sick of him. Stan, for his part, is pretty used to things escalating faster than he can keep up with. Especially when it comes to Kyle's numerous hang-ups. He doesn't want to dwell on it, but he also can't help himself. As he puts the rest of his things away, he checks his phone every couple of minutes, reading the texts over again. The whole situation is a minefield, and probably more indicative of Kyle's anxiety about the trip than anything Stan has actually done, or failed to do. He tells himself this, though he can't tell if the thought makes him feel better, or worse. 

He tosses his gym bag under the bed, then takes his pouch of toiletries through to the bathroom. From the hallway he can hear Roy pottering around in the kitchen, preparing the risotto. Stan stands there for a few seconds, wondering if he should go and offer to help. Given the choice between sharing space with Roy and sitting alone in his room, Stan is genuinely torn, but in the end he retreats, and kills time reading clickbait on his phone until he's called for lunch.

The mushroom risotto, like everything else related to Roy, is only okay. Stan catches himself pushing fat globs of rice around on his plate while Roy and his mother discuss their Christmas plans. They're hosting Roy's parents, as well as Stan and Shelly and Shelly's children, but not her husband, for whatever reason. Stan tunes himself out to family drama, usually. Partly it's because living outside of South Park makes him feel sort of untouchable, but, in contradiction to this, it also pains him in a strange, unexpected way when he hears talk about Shelly considering a divorce at twenty-nine. 

"What's the matter with you, son?" Roy asks very gently from the other side of the dining table. Stan's head snaps up: he hadn't realised he'd been zoning out.

"What?" he says, without thinking.

"You haven't said a word since we sat down." Roy sets down his cutlery and clasps his hands on the table. Then he says, with emphasis, "How are things with _you_?"

"Good." Stan holds eye contact, just to prove that he can. "Work is good. The house is coming along okay. We're decorating the kitchen, I guess," he says, though they aren't, exactly. The reality of the situation is that Stan has made one trip to Home Depot, weeks ago, and now there are paint cans sitting around on the counters and that's the extent of it, but he's grasping at straws and feels, disturbingly, like he's covered all the bases of his life in three sentences, except for:

"And how's Kyle?" Roy asks evenly. "Your mother said he was on a trip. For work?"

"No, it's a Birthright trip," Stan says, as he struggles to spear a piece of mushroom onto his fork. Kyle works as an aide to the mayor: his burgeoning career in local politics will probably never involve travel.

"Oh," Roy says. He'd nodding along like he's following, though he may or may not be. Stan has explained the trip to his mom, over the phone, and he imagines she must have relayed it at some point. "Well. It's a shame he wont be joining us for Christmas."

Stan raises his eyes, unimpressed. "He wouldn't anyway, though." 

Roy frowns. "Well-- I guess not."

"Stanley," his mom chides him, though half-heartedly. She's clearing the plates away, and Stan gives up on the mushroom piece and the gloopy rice and allows her to take his as well. 

He ends up squeezed onto the left side of the sofa for the next few hours while his mom and Roy watch some dated Christmas movie on Netflix, though Stan finds himself staring at the pulsating fairy lights on the tree more than the television. Under the tree there's a pile of gifts which Stan imagines is mostly for the kids, though maybe there will be something for him, too. This thought reminds him of his own lack of preparations. Not only does he not have presents for the Shelly's children, but he also has no idea what to buy them. God knows they're too young for him to slip twenty dollars in a card and call it a day, though he's pretty sure that's what his dad is going to do, regardless of this fact. Usually Shelly takes the kids to see Randy in the afternoon of the 25th. Stan wonders if he'll be obligated to tag along.

He goes back to his room at four, anticipating Kyle's call, though it's almost five by the time it actually comes. Stan was dozing, but he's wrenched out of it by the furious vibrating and the light when the alert flashes up: Kyle's name, and a picture of him at graduation, embarrassed but grinning. 

Stan lets the phone ring a few times before he answers it. "Hi," he says, figuring this is as good an opener as any. 

"Hi," Kyle replies, sounding entirely miserable, and Stan's heart sinks.

"How was your flight?"

"Uh." Kyle sounds off, sort of hoarse, and Stan is in the middle of trying to figure out why when he says, "Well, I threw up. There was turbulence."

Stan clutches the phone closer to his ear, and rolls onto his front, up on his elbows. "Oh. Are you--?"

"So now I'm laying on the floor in departures waiting for this connecting flight and people are kind of staring at me, but, fuck," Kyle interrupts, sounding strained. "Can you just talk to me? Please?"

"Yeah, dude." Stan lowers himself back down against his pillows, wishing he were in his own bed -- his real bed, at home, and that Kyle was there too, and the fantasy is so comforting that it jolts his heart and he closes his eyes, hoping to sink further into it. "About what?"

"I don't know, how's South Park?"

"'How's South Park', are you kidding?" Stan glances out of the window. The curtains are still wide open. "It's the same. It's dark out, it’s snowing, and if I go down to Whole Foods right now I'll probably run into your parents."

It's a relief to hear Kyle laugh.   


-v-

The plan is for Stan to hit the mall early the next morning, though it's almost noon by the time he's finally pulling into the snowed-over parking lot, all bundled in a coat and scarf and wearing two pairs of socks under his boots. The cold bites at him anyway, nipping his bare fingers as he locks the car door from the outside, and then slips his keys into his pocket. Christmas has hit the mall with force, evidently: there are snowflake decals on the windows, and numerous sandwich boards advertising holiday deals and Starbucks specials. The gaudy two-story imitation spruce is visible through one of the glass-panelled walls. 

Indoors, the place is crowded, the seasonal music is obnoxious, and the part-time cashiers are slow. Stan spends too much time in Toys-R-Us before asking for help and buying exactly what's recommended: a chunky Minecraft play-set and a generic but sturdy-looking plush lion. He picks up a fancy bottle of wine for his mom and a box of starter essential oils for Roy, some perfume for his sister, and nothing for her husband. He also grabs some candles for Kenny, a grow-your-own bonsai kit for Randy, and a box of painfully expensive chocolates which might function as a homecoming gift for Kyle, depending on his mood.

He's back in the parking lot again by the time he remembers wrapping paper, and cards. Stan is unsure if anyone still cares about Christmas cards, but he dutifully heads back inside anyway and spends another hour picking out one for each important person in his life. Most of them have animals printed on the fronts: cats and dogs in Santa hats, polar bears. By the time he's cleared the checkout, he's hungry, so he pushes his way through the crowds towards the food court and tries to figure out the least depressing place to eat alone.

Seated inside an overcrowded McDonalds, Stan checks his messages over a chicken sandwich and some weak coffee. He woke up this morning to a text informing him that Kyle had landed in Tel Aviv, and was safe, and had not thrown up again, though it had been a close call. He hasn't heard anything else since then -- Kyle is probably jet-lagged, sleeping or socialising. The only new text is from Deena, informing Stan that everything is fine at work and the new part-time hires are doing well, except for one stress-induced panic attack, which is to be expected. They're young, and it's retail: and they're underpaid, not legally but ethically, though Stan cannot afford to pay them any more. He stares down into his coffee, dwelling on that. Everyone else is busting their ass so he can be here, doing this. A real, technicolour family Christmas. It feels strange to even think about, though Stan can't put his finger on why. 

He ends up wandering the mall for a while afterwards, browsing without buying anything. There have been a number of closures since he last visited, and a sort of reshuffle of the existing stores, and Stan gives them all a cursory walk-through, and then spends a long time staring at a Land Rover that's on display in the middle of the plaza. It's a sleek red, tempting in a way that only a Land Rover in mid-winter can be: a perfect specimen with no temperamental parking brake, no dent in the passenger side. He does want it, in a way, but he's also putting off going back to the apartment, though there's no reason to. There's television, emails, things he could be doing. Giving up on the Land Rover, he turns away, thinking he'll go home and fruitlessly Google hybrids for the nine hundredth time this year instead. 

Then he bumps into Randy Marsh and immediately forgets about everything else.

"Stan!" Randy exclaims, so loudly that a couple of people turn their heads. He's holding plastic shopping bags in both hands, and he's beaming, which makes Stan feel horrible. "Cool Land Rover, huh?"

"Oh-- yeah." Stan glances back at the display. "Yeah. Mom was ragging on me about my car again so I thought... maybe."

"Yeah, maybe." Still smiling, Randy gestures towards the bags Stan is carrying. "You been shopping?"

Stan shrugs, fighting the urge to look at the floor. This forces him to instead acknowledge the crinkles at the corners of Randy's eyes, his stubble. "I left it kinda late."

"Oh yeah, tell me about it." Randy laughs, though it's not really a laugh: he might as well just be saying the words _ha ha_ , and it puts Stan on edge in an instant. As if it's at all funny that he's Christmas shopping on the twenty-third. All at once he's furious with himself, because he knew -- he knew he'd be home, that he'd be seeing his family, that he needed gifts and _all of it_ , and he did nothing about it until the last second, as usual. And, also as usual, Randy doesn't seem to notice that Stan has resorted to staring blankly at him, because he's still here, still trying to make conversation, saying, "So, uh-- what's the deal? Are you in town for the holidays, or...?"

In that moment, Stan cannot help wondering what might happen if he climbed into that Land Rover, slammed the door behind himself, and floored it straight through the wall and all the way back to Boulder, speeding. 

"Yeah," he says lamely. "Sorry I didn't call. It's been busy."

"Oh-- that's," Randy says, then laughs again, unconvincingly. "No, yeah, I get it. The holidays, right? A lot going on."

Stan shifts his bags, adjusting the weight. He can see this playing out for the rest of their lives: standing here in the South Park mall, exchanging empty platitudes about the holidays, and business, and losing track of time. The last time he saw Randy was his own birthday, back in October, when he'd dropped by the house on Bonanza Street and left in a hurry, for no reason other than that he'd wanted to leave as soon as he'd arrived. What was there to talk about? He had, at that time, spent the better part of two years ignoring Randy's attempts to communicate with him, avoiding South Park in general and overall trying to pretend that his father did not exist. That fleeting visit had put them back on speaking terms, though Stan sometimes wishes it hadn't. Partly because he never developed the nerve to tell Kyle about it, and partly because Randy had offered Stan a beer before getting one for himself, swiftly dampening whatever hope Stan had back then that something might have changed. 

But nothing has changed. Stan knows beyond a doubt that his dad is still the same: still stuck in a rut from his divorce almost fifteen years ago, still lonely, getting older. It's something about his posture, or maybe the way he's looking at Stan, as though he's searching his face for a sign that things are normal again. 

"Yeah." Stan sighs, casting one last longing look back over his shoulder at the Land Rover. "Maybe we could get some... some food, or something?" he asks Randy, who lights up at this proposal. His reaction only makes Stan feel worse. "I just ate, but." He shrugs. "Maybe we could go somewhere."

-v-

Half an hour later, Stan is seated in a booth at Skeeter's, nursing a glass of Pepsi Max while his dad carefully swirls some red wine, which has a name Stan doesn't recognise but which, he's pretty sure, costs approximately four dollars and isn't worth the time Randy is spending on it. At least half of South Park's entire population is here, and upon stepping inside Stan had felt a kind of insane paranoia that he might run into just about anybody: like Eric Cartman, or his mom and Roy, which would be excruciating. He had kept his head down on the way to the table, seeing many familiar faces in his periphery but none he'd be obligated to speak to, or who would be likely to feel obligated to speak to him. 

"So," Randy says, leaning on the table. He gives Stan what might be intended to be a knowing look. "Christmas, huh?"

"Yup," Stan says. The bubbles in his glass are rising slowly, drifting to the top. "It comes around pretty fast."

"And you're celebrating with your mom, I guess," Randy says. Stan looks up at him with some trepidation, but Randy only shrugs and continues, "What's she cooking this year?"

"Um, she's making a walnut loaf with cranberry sauce and mushroom gravy," Stan tells him mechanically, though he's pretty sure Roy will be cooking the majority of it. The man doesn't mesh with gender roles, and is also vaguely neurotic about someone accidentally using beef bullion or something when preparing a communal meal. Stan would respect both of these traits in virtually any other person, but for whatever reason, he's never been able to make it work with Roy. Respect, that is: he's never been able to _respect_ Roy. Uncomfortable with the thought, he raises his eyes and finds his dad watching him, uncomprehending. "Oh-- uh, Roy's a vegetarian."

"You're kidding!"

"Nope."

"And you're going to eat that crap?" Randy sits up straighter, indignant, and even moreso when Stan remains silent. "Stan!"

Stan shifts in his seat, feeling like a child receiving a lecture. He had dabbled briefly in vegetarianism as a child, though he'd taken it a little too far by anyone's account. Kyle had joined him, even more briefly, and they've never revisited the idea since. Would Stan rather eat chicken or beef than a moulded walnut concoction? Yes, obviously -- but then, there are a lot of things he would rather be doing than sitting in a wine bar, in South Park, with his divorced father, who is now threatening to cause a scene over the dumbest shit imaginable. 

"I don't think it's that big of a deal," he says eventually, because it seems like a good middle ground. Not defending Roy's probably sub-par Christmas cooking, but also not enabling Randy, or whatever the term would be--

"Oh, my god. Not a big deal?" Randy repeats, too loudly. "Jesus, is he feeding it to the kids, too?"

"I don't know," Stan says, desperate now to change the subject. "Just-- yeah, so. I'm staying for a couple weeks, um. Kyle's on a trip until after New Year, so I figured I should come home and see you guys." 

Randy seems to consider this information for a moment. "Kyle went on vacation without you?"

"No, it's a Birthright trip," Stan explains. "It's this thing where Jewish people can go to Israel for free, and meet people other Jewish people, and do... like, activities?" 

Kyle always does a better job at this: he's had the itinerary memorised for weeks, as well as the blurb from the website, whereas Stan always fumbles and makes it sound like it's some kind of single's cruise.

"Oh. That's cool," Randy says. "Sounds like a vacation."

"I don't know why it matters if it's a vacation or not." 

"It doesn't, I'm just saying it sounds like one." Randy takes a sip of his wine, then drums his fingers on the table a few times before he says, "You know, Kyle's mom and dad still live right next door."

Stan closes his eyes for a moment, and takes a breath. "I know they do," he says, as evenly as he can, though he knows what's coming. 

"I'm just saying." Randy shrugs, looking purposefully off to the side. "Sometimes it's like I hear about you from them more than I hear from you."

"Dad..."

"'S nothin'," Randy says, shrugging again. Then, abruptly, he shoves his glass towards Stan, holds it out to him and asks, "Do you want to smell this Cabernet?" 

Before he even really means to do it, Stan feels himself edging towards the outside of the booth. "Not really," he says. "Thanks. I'm just gonna go to the bathroom?"

"'Kay," Randy says, and Stan can feel that he's being watched as he leaves, weaving through all the round little tables and metal stools, wishing he could walk right out of the front door instead. 

Once inside the bathroom, Stan comes to a stop in front of the sinks and stares at himself in the mirror there. He looks better than he feels. In fact, he looks fine. He is fine. What could be wrong? Stan's family may not be perfect, they may not be normal, but they're functional. That is, they can get through the holidays every year without cataclysmic arguments or thrown furniture, which is an upgrade from his childhood, and therefore counts as functional enough for him. 

Stan's problem, he thinks as he takes his hat off and runs his fingers fruitlessly through his hair a couple of times, is that he's gotten too used to doing whatever he wants all the time. That's the thing about it. Visiting South Park is, and historically has always been, an exercise in sitting through activities that range from boring to excruciating, and yet until now it's been only a minor inconvenience, because usually Kyle is with him, or at least close enough that Stan feels anchored enough to his actual life not to be dragged down by this part of it. 

He takes his phone out of his pocket, already mentally composing what he wants to get off his chest: that South Park is not the same, but rather worse, perhaps due to his lack of recent exposure to it, and that Randy is still stuck on guilt-tripping him for not visiting often enough despite not giving him a reason to, because he is an asshole. But then Stan thinks about Kyle, carefree on a mountain somewhere, and he can't bring himself to tell him any of this, so he puts his phone away and leaves the bathroom altogether, figuring the only thing to do now is get this over with.

He heads back to the table and slips into the booth, feeling strangely agitated. Randy doesn't seem to notice. He's browsing a laminated menu, hmming over it every couple of seconds. 

After one more round, Stan makes an excuse about wanting to hide the gifts he bought before his mom gets home from work at four. It's flimsy, but Randy doesn't object to it, and Stan wonders what his plans for the rest of the day might involve. He drives Randy back to Bonanza Street, letting the Jeep idle outside the driveway rather than parking in it. "You want to come in?" Randy offers, and Stan awkwardly declines but spends the short drive to his mom's place thinking about the house anyway. His room there hasn't been redecorated, and neither has Shelly's. His clubhouse is still in the tree in the backyard, weather-beaten but mostly intact, though completely filled with snow at this time of year. He catches himself having the insane thought that Randy might agree to sell the place someday, and Kyle might agree to take it: he occasionally laments their house's lack of a third bedroom and the houses on Bonanza have four, as if that's good enough of a reason to uproot their jobs and lives to come and live on the mountain again. Kyle would never want the house. Stan doesn't want it either. And the whole thing is moot because Randy, Stan knows, has no intention of leaving it, anyway, or he would've done so by now.

The apartment is silent when Stan gets back. He sheds all of his damp outerwear, then locks himself in the guest bedroom and empties his shopping bags onto the carpet, before sitting down cross-legged and sorting the gifts into a few loose piles, matching them up with the paper he wants to use. As he wraps them, he intermittently checks the time. Four, five, six pm goes by: by seven, Stan has finished with the presents, hidden them in the closet, and is sitting down to dinner with his mother and Roy again.

"What is this?" he asks as a plate is served to him. It's pasta with a yellow sauce, though he doesn't dare to hope.

His mother and Roy, sitting together on the opposite side of the table, stare at him.

"It's mac and cheese, Stan," Sharon tells him, raising her eyebrows. 

"'Kay," Stan says, feeling harassed as he pokes a noodle with his fork. "Just checking."

Stan volunteers to wash the dishes this time, and as he does, he finds his mind wandering back over the events of the day. Whatever stress he was feeling about the gifting situation has been replaced tenfold by seeing Randy and spending time with him, something that Stan has always found sort of emotionally draining, even before they stopped talking. Despite this, they were close once: first in Stan's early childhood, and then again for a period after his college graduation when, after the loss of his Grandpa, Stan had made a marked effort to include Randy in his life again. They had gone camping and fishing a few times, sometimes with Jimbo and sometimes without. Stan had even gotten into the habit of coming over to watch football games on the weekends, for a while. 

He does not idealize these times, exactly. He remembers that Randy pissed him off more often than not, though they got along far better after a few beers, which was always a given. Sometimes Randy would start mixing cocktails, which he loved to do, or break out a bottle of wine for "tasting", which usually ended up finished by the end of the night. It became a routine, Sunday nights, and then Mondays, when Stan would stay for breakfast, hang out with Kenny for a while, and then go into work in the afternoon feeling oddly refreshed, almost energized. 

Stan's memory of the last Sunday night he spent this way is fuzzy at best. All he remembers is the bite of the freezing air as he'd thrown the front door open sometime after midnight, the sound of his own voice protesting that he was fine, the way he'd stumbled on the front path, wincing, struggling with the handle of the Jeep before remembering that he had to unlock it. Randy, on the front step, had laughed watching this, and Stan had laughed too, because at the time, it was funny. Stan pulls the plug from the sink, then dries his hands on a nearby towel. He must've sobered up a little during the drive, because everything after that point is as vivid as when it happened, though he's never shared the details with anybody except Kyle.

He hasn't even talked about it with Randy. He simply stopped returning his calls, stopped dropping by, and although it's gone unsaid, Stan knows that his reasons aren't unclear. Randy must've seen the dent on Stan's car, heard through the grapevine about the AA meetings, put two and two together... Stan had always assumed this, and had harboured a secret and idiotic hope that it might kick Randy's ass into gear somehow, so that by the time Stan got around to forgiving him, there would be a whole lot less to forgive.

This hasn't happened, but Stan is beginning to feel like he might finally be over it. Randy has been straddling the border of functional alcoholism for decades now, Stan thinks as he shuts off the kitchen light and heads to his room, where he sprawls on the bed, unsure what else to do with himself. Why has he ever expected anything from his dad? Randy has always been basically the same: selfish, reckless...

Stan is starting to feel reckless too, or maybe just upset. He mostly tries to avoid thinking about the accident -- really, he tries to avoid everything. When did he become this way? He reaches for his phone, wishing he could talk this over with Kyle, but the sun isn't up yet in Israel, and anyway, he knows what Kyle would say: that Randy is bad news, that Stan would be an idiot to go anywhere near him now, that the two years of Stan's life without Randy in them were the best he's ever had. It isn't true. Stan has had better years, ones which were neither improved nor worsened by Randy's presence in them. He throws his forearm over his eyes, and groans. No way can he leave things like this, terse and awkward for another year, or two, or three... 

Something has to give.

-v-

Kyle calls bright and early the following morning. Stan is already awake, barefoot and wearing a housecoat, standing alone in his mother's kitchen and watching a robin which has perched on the windowsill. Its legs are submerged in the snow that's gathered there, and Stan keeps an eye on it while he drinks his coffee, unsure if it will manage to fly away, and clueless as to what he'll do if it doesn't.

"Sorry I missed you yesterday," Kyle says, quite breezily. The connection isn't great, and Stan can hear people in the background, talking and laughing intermittently: he can imagine Kyle standing with a hand jammed over his other ear, people trying to coax him back to whatever he's missing. "It's actually really hard not to call you in the middle of the night, with the time difference."

"Yeah, you too," Stan says. Balancing the phone on his shoulder, he starts rummaging around in the cupboards, wondering if there are some cookies or something so that he doesn't have to make an actual breakfast. "What time is it now?"

"Five. We're about to get dinner. I'm starving, dude, I've been hiking all day and now I can't feel my legs."

"You were hiking?" 

"And rafting."

"Wow," Stan says, amused. "Rafting?"

"I know." Kyle is audibly grinning. "Anyway, I'll text you about it when I get back to the hotel-- I just wanted to check in with you really quick."

"Well, I'm fine," Stan says. He spots a pack of Chips Ahoy and takes them down one-handed, fumbling and almost dropping them in the process. "Things are pretty quiet here."

"Yeah?" says Kyle. "What are you doing today?"

"I kind of want to go into work."

"Stan!"

"What if it's busy?" Stan says, disappointed to find that the package is already open, and the cookies inside are soft. He stuffs one into his mouth anyway. 

"It's not busy, it's Christmas Eve!" Kyle says, though they've had customers this close to Christmas before, once or twice.

"It's just weird not being there."

"What about your family? Can't you take the kids to the park, or something?"

"They aren't here yet." Gazing out of the window, Stan realises he isn't as excited about their arrival as he thought he would be. He eats another cookie, considering this. "I don't know. Maybe I'll go see Kenny."

The line crackles, as though Kyle has gone through a tunnel. Stan supposes he must be far out from the closest cell tower.

"What did you say?" he says when it clears again.

"I said, are you sure?"

"Yeah." Stan reaches into the pack for a third cookie. "Why wouldn't I be sure?"

"It's just that I usually go with you."

"So I'll tell him why you can't come." Stan turns his back to the window, leaning on the counter. "He wont mind, dude."

"Yeah, I guess he wont." Very distinctly, Stan hears someone on the other end of the line calling Kyle's name, and Kyle sighs. "Ugh, they're serving dinner-- I have to go--"

"Okay." Stan can't think of anything else to say that wouldn't be an unwelcome addition, and in the end Kyle just hangs up. A few minutes later, he sends a text which Stan reads while attempting to brush the cookie crumbs from the front of his housecoat into the sink with his free hand. 

_Why are international calls so expensive? Smh... I'd ask if you want to try phone-sex later, but it would cost like fifty dollars._

_I can't believe you put a hyphen between 'phone' and 'sex'._

_I can't believe you don't!_

Throughout the rest of the morning, Kyle does deliver a pretty comprehensive overview of his first two days overseas. They text periodically while Stan sits on the sofa, watches two Christmas movies in a row, and eats the rest of the cookies with some guilt. 

_At orientation we had to say our names and where we're from, and come up with an interesting fact about ourselves. And it really made me realise, there are no interesting facts about me. At all_.

_Dude, that's not true._ Stan replies in an instant. _What about only having one kidney? And your latex allergy?_

_Those aren't interesting facts, that's my medical chart._

_So what did you end up saying?_

But Stan never finds out what Kyle ended up saying: the texts end there and he assumes that Kyle must be rafting again, or possibly asleep. He stares at his phone and thinks about calling Randy, doing something about those vague plans he's been forming in his head about tomorrow. Why wait? Something about that house is calling out to him, and the fact that Randy will be in it is only slightly discouraging. Stan realises that he's been fidgeting with the empty cookie wrapper for at least five minutes now, going over and over what he's going to say, how he's going to act. Firm, but not apologetic. Understanding, but not vulnerable. Strategic, but not cold. 

Starting to feel restless, Stan puts on his coat and hat in a hurry and goes out to the Jeep. He scrapes the windows down, then sits in the idling car for ten minutes rubbing his hands together, until it's no longer freezing inside. Even after it's warm enough, he continues to sit there, fiddling with his seatbelt, before he plugs it in decisively and puts the car in drive, steering carefully out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

A few minutes later he's pulling up beside Skeeter's, and he scans the other cars to see if he recognises any before heading inside. It's even more crowded than the previous day, though there's a stool free at the bar. Stan walks over and takes it, attempting to project a confidence he does not have as he sits at a bar for the first time in his adult life and scans the chalkboard menu, which is situated on the wall behind all of the drinks and also behind the bartenders, who are tending to other people, chatting. Neither of them are Skeeter, which comes as a relief. 

"What can I get you?" one of them asks a minute later as she approaches him, surprisingly unhurried for how busy the place is. She's a pretty redhead who looks too young to be working there, and for some reason, her calm puts Stan on edge. 

"Can I just get a beer?" he asks, looking to the menu again. Most of the beverages listed are very local are very foreign, and he is familiar with none of them. 

"No preference?"

"I guess surprise me." 

"Alright. I'll need some ID," she tells him, leaning both of her elbows on the bar as though waiting to see what might unfold as Stan takes his license from his pocket and opens it. The bartender looks him over with purpose before she takes it from him, scanning the page.

"Hey, don't even think about it, asshole," an familiar voice says. It's the other bartender, who, to Stan's immense alarm, is also Craig Tucker, standing five feet away and eyeing his coworker with cool disapproval. "That one's married." 

"I'm not married," Stan hears himself saying, stupidly. But Craig is already gone, turned around and tending to somebody else. He looks to the other bartender instead, who gives him back his ID with a roll of her eyes. "Did he just call you an asshole?" Stan asks her. 

"He's my brother," she explains, ducking underneath the bar for a glass. "He's allowed to." 

"Oh." 

"But I won't pretend I'm not on the look-out," she tells him, a little more cheerfully. "It's cuffing season, you know?" When she sets the glass down, she mimes grabbing her own wrist with the opposite hand, hard.

"I think Christmas Eve is a little late for cuffing season," Stan says. She laughs, not particularly genuinely, and Stan watches with mild discomfort as she pulls and serves his drink. He pays for it, then stares at his glass for a long while after she's gone, wondering if he should maybe just leave, or if doing so at this point would be rude. 

"What's the matter?" Craig asks, stopping by on his way to the other side of the bar. He's looking down at Stan with distaste, like he might be about to ask him to leave. "I know that's not your first beer." 

"Yeah, no. Just the first in a while," Stan tells him. He's pretty sure that the last time he saw Craig they were both wasted, along with Kyle and everybody else who'd showed up to whoever's Fourth of July party it had been, the summer after senior year of high school. Years ago now. He takes a moment to eye Craig properly, and finds that he looks mostly the same, though better-dressed. Stan doubts this is also true for himself. "I didn't know you still lived here." 

"Sure." Craig shifts his weight, ignoring a patron a few stools over from Stan's who is clearly trying to get his attention. "I came back after college."

"Why?"

Craig snorts. "Nice. Very polite."

He stalks off again, and Stan catches himself fidgeting with his phone, unlocking it in his pocket. He'll text Kyle first, he thinks, to tell him that Craig is haunting South Park and is still as much of a dick as he used to be -- but then he does the math and remembers that Kyle will almost certainly be sleeping by now, so he forgets that idea and takes a sip of his drink instead. It tastes fine -- like beer. Not great, but then, it never is. 

-v-

This time, Stan makes the walk down to Bonanza Street. The sun is setting and he keeps his hands in his pockets, letting the snow-thick sidewalks soak the cuffs of his jeans. He feels a little queasy, though he only had the one beer, and he followed it up with two Pepsis and several handfuls of the complementary salted popcorn, so he feels clear, or at least as clear as he was before he went to Skeeter's. He did not speak any further with Craig Tucker, or anyone else. Given the circumstances, he'd been in the mood to sit by himself and mindlessly scroll through websites on his phone, taking in nothing, trying not to think about Kyle.

They've been doing the holidays right all these years, Stan thinks. He had always looked forward to it, though he had not been fully aware of how good it was until now. With Kyle, he doesn't have to think about anything, or at least not during that last week of the year, when they're flopped together on the couch, going nowhere, nowhere open to go to even if they wanted. 

He takes the short-cut through the park, which is iced over and deserted. The sky overhead is a slate grey and Stan figures that it'll snow again before nightfall, maybe within the hour. Everywhere he goes in this town, he feels like he's retracting his own footsteps, all the places he's ever been and everything he's done. When they were kids, they stuck together like their lives depended on it: him and Kyle, and Kenny, and even Cartman, who is long gone and off the grid, though he sends letters periodically, every other year. They're always addressed to Kyle, and Stan copes with his annoyance about this by taking comfort in the fact that he was always closer with Kenny, so in the end, maybe it evens out. 

He steps onto Bonanza Street, then bypasses the front door of his dad's house, heading through the gate to the backyard. The clubhouse is indeed still there, though the roof caved in at some point while Stan was at college and the whole thing probably should've been removed at that point, though it never was. Stan stands at the base of the tree, looking up at it. It got some decent use in the third grade, post-truth or dare, as a place where he and Kyle would retreat to to discuss anything deemed a secret, ranging from Stan's hopeless crushes to Kyle's many ethical dilemmas. Stan supposes they still tell each other everything, though he doesn't intend to tell Kyle about the trip to Skeeter's. He tries to imagine how Kyle might react to this news, but can't -- or rather, he doesn't want to. There are too many ugly possibilities. Kyle pissed off, Kyle lecturing, or, worst of all, Kyle rolling his eyes and saying nothing, because Stan was never good at keeping promises, anyway.

The back door creaks open and Stan turns around. 

"Uh." Randy is there, bleary and unshaven, wearing slippers and a housecoat. His eyes are narrowed against the low sun. "I don't think that thing is structurally sound."

"I know. I was just looking." Stan looks again, letting himself remember how it was: clumsily built but sturdy enough, something he used to be proud of. He and Kyle snuck up there a couple of times in high school to make out, though they'd stopped after one incident where Kyle slipped on the ladder on the way down and landed badly, breaking his arm. The ladder is gone now, either displaced or rotted away entirely. "I was thinking maybe I could try to fix it sometime."

"Nah. You'd be better off just tearing the whole thing down and starting over," Randy says, off-hand, shaking his head. "Ugh, I've been meaning to get rid of it for months. You want a coffee?"

Stan accepts this offer, and sits at the kitchen table while Randy brews a pot and makes some toast, humming to himself and occasionally yawning. The decor is exactly the same as it was while he was growing up, paint peeling from the cabinets. There are dishes in the sink, and Stan has the strange urge to get up and wash them, though he doesn't. 

"What are you doing tomorrow?" he asks when Randy brings two mugs to the table, and then follows them with a plate stacked with buttered toast slices before sitting down. Stan takes one, grateful for something to do with his hands. 

"Oh, uh-- well." Randy glances around the room, as though this might tell him. "You know."

"No, I don't know, that's why I'm asking you." 

"Well, you know," Randy says again. Then he shrugs. "A little takeout, a little TV. They have that countdown with the Christmas songs, that's always fun."

“Yeah,” Stan says, noncommittally. He remembers all the Christmases they had here in this kitchen: Marvin in his wheelchair, Shelley texting her boyfriend of the moment, Sharon stressed out in an apron and Randy, onto his sixth or seventh beer by the time dinner was being served. Stan had loved it anyway. The holidays were the one time of the year that his family _had_ to love each other. Arguments were banned, and he was always happy by the time his whole family curled up on the sofa to watch Miracle on 34th Street. He hears his own voice saying, “Do you think maybe I could join you?”

Randy raises his eyebrows. “I mean— Will your mother be okay with that?”

Stan looks at him. Randy needs a haircut, and his housecoat is too small. He thinks of the insufferable Roy and his revolting nut loaf, and of Shelley’s children, happy, oblivious that their world is about to be changed the way Stan’s was, way back when. And he thinks of Kyle: far away, and none the wiser.

“I think I’m old enough to decide what to do for the holidays,” Stan says. 

"Cool. Then, great." Picking up his coffee mug, Randy leans back in his chair. He takes a long drink, smiling to himself. "Okay." 

-v-

Stan ends up getting back to the apartment in the early evening, by which time his mom and Roy are back and Shelly has arrived. Stan knows this because when he opens the front door, he can hear his niece shrieking from the living room, "Is that Santa Claus?!"

"Laci, he doesn't come until later, remember?" Shelly tells her as Stan kicks off his boots and heads down the hall. He pokes his head into the living room to see a scene of absolute chaos: toys strewn about, papers and crayons and empty plastic bowls which might have once held snacks, and a pile of opened DVD cases which look like rejects, examined before the choice was made to watch _Frozen_. The blue princess is running around on the TV, but as Stan enters the room, Laci turns away from this and beams at him. 

"Uncle Stan!" she all but shouts, leaping from the floor and running into his arms. He kneels down to hug her, surprised by her enthusiasm: last time he saw her, she'd been entirely distracted by Shelly's iPad and had barely noticed her surroundings at all. 

"Where were you?" Sharon asks from the couch, where she looks comfortable, one of Roy's arms around her shoulder. Shelly's son is nestled in the crook of his other arm, fast asleep and content. "Shelly had to carry the travel crib up here on her own, _and_ her bags. You said you'd be here to help."

Stan has no recollection of this -- he must have agreed to it over one of the two dinners during which he spent mostly spaced out, thinking about other things. 

Shelly rolls her eyes. "Mom--"

"I was with Dad," Stan says, hoping this explanation might help him out somehow. It has the opposite effect: as he gets to his feet, Sharon's icy stare goes cryogenic, and Shelly drops whatever she was about to say in his defence. 

"Uh, why?" she asks him instead.

"Because-- look, I was thinking about doing Christmas Day with him, and--"

"Uncle Stan!" Laci exclaims again. She's still at his feet, her arms outstretched. 

"--I just think it would be better," Stan finishes desperately, hoisting Laci into his arms and looking over her shoulder to see the reactions , which are not great, so far. "The kids can sleep in my room so Shelly doesn't have to use the couch, and then I can come over the next day, or..." 

Stan trails off, unsure what else to suggest. Laci is chattering away, right next to his ear, but he’s only slightly paying attention to her explanation of what’s been happening in _Frozen_ so far.

"Well, if that's what you want," Sharon says, shortly. Then she turns back to the TV.

"Sharon..." Roy says, trying to soothe her.

"Why are you pissed?" Stan demands. Close to his ear, Laci gasps: 'pissed' must be forbidden terminology at Shelly's house. 

"I'm not _pissed_ , Stan," Sharon says, rolling her eyes. "I just don't know what's the matter with you lately. You've been acting like..."

"Like what?" Stan says, already knowing. 

"I don't know, not like yourself?" 

"You, shut up," Shelly demands, pointing at Stan before he's even opened his mouth to respond. "If you wake the baby with this stupid-ass argument--"

"I wont." Stan sets Laci down on the floor, unable to look her or anyone else in the eyes. "I'm gonna go."

But as soon as he makes it back to his room and closes the door behind himself, Shelly is there, throwing it open again.

"What is this actually about?" she asks, closing the door again as she watches Stan begin to pack his things. He feels more idiotic than he has since he arrived here, more teenaged: like he's running away at the age of twenty-five, throwing sweaters and pairs of jeans back into his duffel bag.

"What?" 

"Some shit's going down here that I don't know about. I can tell," Shelly says, putting her hands on her hips. "What did Dad say to you?"

"Nothing!" Stan says, zipping the bag with force. "I'm just sick of holding a grudge because he's an alcoholic. It's stupid."

"I don't think it's stupid." 

"Well, that's because you have kids. That's different. I--" Stan breaks off, unsure where he's going with this. "I just want to have a regular Christmas and everybody else keeps fucking it up," he decides, crossing the room to open the closet in which he's hidden the gift bags. He lifts them onto the bed and starts sorting them into two piles. "And you know what? At least dad likes having me around." 

"You’re being a turd about this,” Shelley says, matter-of-factly. “You’re going to ruin Christmas for Mom and everyone.”

“No, I wont,” Stan says, glaring at her. “Don't worry, okay? I’ll stay out of her way.”

Nobody helps him down the stairs with his things, and he has to shoulder the front door open, his hands full of jostling gift bags. As he leaves, he can hear Shelley returning to the living room, and benign chit-chat. He closes the door too hard and hurries down the stairs, out into the biting cold again. The sun is setting pink on the horizon, and Stan pats down every one of his pockets before he eventually finds his car keys and opens the lock, increasingly irritated. In a moment of insanity, he considers throwing the bags down in the snow and leaving them for the raccoons. In the end, he bundles everything into the car and sits in the front seat seething, waiting for it to heat up.

He feels stupid, yet somehow, also righteous. He is doing the right thing. His dad is alone for Christmas, has been alone for his past fifteen Christmases, and Stan needs to step up. No, he doesn’t need to — he _wants_ to. He tells himself this as he puts the car in drive and goes at a glacier pace all the way back to Bonanza, careful in the snow.

Randy isn’t home when Stan arrives back at the house. He stands on the doorstep for a while, shifting his weight, trying to keep warm. He eyes the house next door, the Broflovski house, imagining how cozy it must be, and what Sheila might be making for dinner. Kyle doesn’t visit his parents often, and Stan usually doesn’t join him. Stan has always chalked it up to being part of their arrangement - no joint bank account, no I love yous, no family occasions. 

In the end, Stan lets himself in with the spare key that has been kept under the doormat since before he was born. It’s wet and cold, but it works, and Stan shuffles out of his damp coat and scarf. He leaves his outwear draped on the bannister and his shoes on the mat, to make it extra clear that he’s here. Then he heads upstairs.

The house is dark, and there’s a chill in the air. Stan finds himself standing in front of the door to his childhood bedroom, which is closed. He opens it, and steps inside, sighing as he turns on the light. It’s been years since he set foot in here, not long before the accident. Unlike his room at his mom’s house, it looks the same as when he was a kid; same blue walls, same old carpet, same single bed. He leaves his bags on the floor and crosses the room to open the closet. A rack of tiny clothes greets him - some are from his teens, when he was thinner, but most are from elementary school. His gaze travels to the floor: a pile of small shoes, an ancient football, his old Spanish guitar. He kneels down, peering in further. On one side, hidden behind the wall, there’s a guilty bottle of lube, from more recent years. Stan laughs at that, and finds himself wanting to text Kyle, again.

With one hand, he reaches past the lube, into the depths of the back of the closet. His eyes roll up as he tries to access his muscle memory, feeling around in a pile of discarded clothes . His hand finds cool glass, and his fingers wrap around the signature, angular bottle. Reluctantly, he pulls it out, and glances at the label. Jameson - and after all these years, it’s still half full.

Growing up, his childhood bedroom had been Stan’s favourite place to drink. His dad worked from nine ‘til six, and nobody bothered him here. The hardest part, he remembered, was sneaking in when Kyle lived right next door. Kyle, whose personality had always slightly resembled that of an elderly woman, had a habit of looking out the window onto the street, and calling out to Stan when he walked by, assuming that Stan would only have one reason to be hanging around Bonanza in the afternoons. Sometimes, on those days, Kyle was as soothing as the bottle would’ve been - but on others, they bickered and fought, with Stan desperate to be alone, and Kyle oblivious to it all.

Feeling restless, Stan returns the Jamison bottle to the closet and gets out his phone. He has a missed call from Shelley, which he ignores. He scrolls through his contacts, wishing it was high school again, and that Kyle is right next door, eager for any invitation up to Stan’s bedroom, or the treehouse. His thumb hovers over Kyle’s name, but it's still too early in Israel. He scrolls up, staring at the name above: Kenny. Stan sighs. In school, he’d gone through an ugly phase where he dialled Kenny’s number whenever anything was wrong, and sobbed down the phone until the embarrassment overwhelmed him and he hung up, then refused to acknowledge it the next day. He’d gone through a lot of ugly phases, really. He stares up at the ceiling. Here he is: it's Christmas Eve, and Stan feels lonelier than he has in his whole life.

He gets up, then crawls into bed. The sheets smell of dust, and Stan wonders when they were last changed. At the same time, he doesn’t care. He misses his bed at home: not this home, but home-home, in Boulder. He misses his house, with the mortgage, and the unpainted kitchen. He misses work, and having things to do, and feeling normal, at least most of the time. 

He lays there in a daze, alternating between browsing the internet, listening to music, and staring at the wall. These sheets have ironed-on decals of various types of sports balls on them, and Stan finds himself scratching off the plastic, leaving little chips of it everywhere. He lets his eyes fall closed, trying to stay calm. When he opens them, Kyle has texted him.

_I ended up saying I co-own a camping supply store._

Stan stares at his phone for a moment, scrolling back up for context: Kyle’s orientation, introducing himself. For what feels like the first time all day, Stan smiles.

_Dude!_

_I know! It was so stupid, because now people think I know what the hell I'm doing with all the outdoors stuff! And I don't! Help me Stan!!_

_It's too lat dude, you'll have to own up and tell them you don't own it and you've only workd there like, five shifts over fuor years_ , Stan says. He's typing too quickly, hitting send without proofreading. 

_I_ _'m pretty sure it was AT LEAST six shifts,_ Kyle replies, just as quickly. _Why aren't you asleep?_

Stan glances at the top of his phone screen. _It's 8pm._

_Oh. I thought it was later._ There’s a pause: Kyle types for at least a minute before eventually saying, _Did you do anything today?_

_No, but I saw Crag Tucker, lol. He's working at Skeeter's for some reason._

_Why were you at Skeeter's?_

Stan’s heart sinks, and he takes much longer to craft his next response. I _wasn't, I was walking and I saw him through the window. I went to Faggoncini’s with Shelley._

_Wow, really? I thought that place closed down._

Stan says nothing. He didn’t go anywhere near Faggoncini’s, and he hasn’t had a reason to care about the place in more than half a decade. He closes the messaging app and opens his browser, about to Google whether the South Park location really did close down, but Kyle’s reply stops him. 

_How was it?_

_Greasy,_ Stan replies, eager to change the subject. _What have you been doing?_

_Other than lying about being a rugged outdoorsman?_ Kyle says, and the image makes Stan smile again. If there was such a thing as an indoorsman, it would be Kyle. _I don't know. I climbed a mountain yesterday?_

_Really?_

_It wasn't a steep mountain. We're supposed to be doing wine tasting today, and then going to Jerusalem._

_Wine tasting, seriously?_

_I wish you were here._ There’s another pause, and Stan finds himself unable to look away from the three little dots that indicate that Kyle is typing. _Not for the wine tasting thing, but this whole trip is kind of a once-in-a-lifetime deal. Though, I don't know if it's as cool if you're not Jewish._

_I bet it's still pretty cool, dude._

Kyle doesn't reply, and after five minutes Stan puts his phone on the nightstand and rolls over again. 


End file.
